


Homecoming: the haiku diary of Kuwabara Torajirou

by tarigwaemir (troisroyaumes)



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Community: fifthmus, Gen, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-26
Updated: 2007-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troisroyaumes/pseuds/tarigwaemir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1844, shortly after receiving a promotion to fourth dan at the age of fourteen, Honinbou Shuusaku returned to his hometown of Innoshima for eighteen months.  It was his second visit home after leaving to study at the Honinbou school in Edo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming: the haiku diary of Kuwabara Torajirou

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ontogenesis](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ontogenesis).



> Written for [Ontogenesis](http://ontogenesis.livejournal.com) for her request, "a story about Torajirou (aka Honinbou Shuusaku), maybe his POV on being a gifted go player with a ghost, or just a slice-of-life vignette."
> 
> Loosely inspired by Basho's _The Narrow Road to the Interior_. Thanks to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Honinbo_Shusaku) and [Sensei's Library](http://senseis.xmp.net/?Shusaku) for information on Shuusaku's life.

_In 1844, shortly after receiving a promotion to fourth _dan_ at the age of fourteen, Honinbou Shuusaku returned to his hometown of Innoshima for eighteen months. It was his second visit home after leaving to study at the Honinbou school in Edo._

It is said that a game of _igo_ mirrors the changing universe. The patterns that unfold in black and white stones become the flux and flow between heaven and earth, day and night, life and death. If this is true, then the _igo_ player is no more than an instrument, the zither from which these harmonies are plucked.

But it is also said that a game of _igo_ mirrors the player's heart. Each hand speaks his most hidden thoughts: his fears, desires, and passions exposed wordlessly on the wooden surface. Thus, learning _igo_ is like learning to write poetry. The _igo_ player must first master how to say what he intends to say, then how to not say it, and finally how to say it in his own voice. Unsigned, an exceptional poem still bears the name of the poet who wrote it; so too does a beautiful game announce the mind of its player.

If this is true, then whom do the games of Honinbou Shuusaku reveal?

> early setting sun  
> the cicadas' soft echo  
> beneath ancient stones

Restless with uncertainty, I asked Shuwa-sensei's permission to journey back home to Innoshima. He was surprised at my eagerness to leave so suddenly after receiving _yondan_ and inquired whether I intended to participate in next year's castle games. I do not know yet when I will return.

\---

I spent the night at an inn in Onomichi, having arrived too late to take the ferry to Innoshima before nightfall. The innkeeper asked my name, and I answered, Kuwabara Torajirou. It has been many years since I last spoke my name or heard it spoken out loud. At the Honinbou school, I am called Shuusaku but that name rightly belongs to Sai-sensei.

This morning I stopped by Senkou-ji temple to pray and made the acquaintance of Matamune-san, a fellow traveler who is making a pilgrimage in these parts. Upon hearing that I came from the Honinbou school in Edo, he asked me for a game, and Sai-sensei was eager as usual to oblige. The now-familiar sensation of Sensei's excitement settled over me like the lulling smell of temple incense. The game was calm and unhurried.

> from dusty ceiling  
> a spider descending to  
> comment on the game

Sai-sensei won the game, and Matamune-san thanked me profusely for teaching him. I bowed and said that the game had taught me much as well, although I fear he mistook my words as mere courtesies. Later, I asked Sai-sensei what would have happened if Matamune-san had extended to the upper left earlier instead of cautiously protecting his territory in the right. Sensei replied that in this case, the conservative move was a good choice since there had also been a trap waiting in the upper left, which Matamune-san had deftly avoided.

I have spent four years in Edo, studying _igo_ day and night, watching game after game of _igo_, but there is still much that I have yet to learn. Even a thousand years may not be enough.

At midday, I bade farewell to Matamune-san and went to the ferry, where I paid for my passage across the sea. I arrived in Innoshima shortly before dusk.

> old, half-bent pine tree  
> do you still remember me?  
> your branches silent

 

\---

The small delights of coming home: a room to myself, the comforting clack-clack of Father's abacus, my old sandals set out by my mother at the door. The shoes are too small for me now but I wore them anyway, letting my heels grow muddy.

Sai-sensei was anxious today, although he tried his best to hide it from me. I too hid my smile out of respect. Instead, I asked for a game, since that is what he loves best. It was the first time I played for myself since I last left Innoshima. In Edo, we did not have time alone to play a game together, and I dared not play any opponent as myself.

> falling maple leaf  
> lightly rests on two star points  
> like a patch of blood

Although I have watched all of Sai-sensei's games, it is only when he is my opponent that I am reminded of the full extent of his talent. I struggled to read ahead further, to lay subtle traps, to turn the tide of the game with a brilliant hand, but he was always one step ahead.

I have lost, I said, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He told me that I made my mistake in _chuuban_ when I failed to notice the importance of his _katatsugi_. He also told me that my style of _igo_ is beginning to mirror his. I believed it to be a compliment, for does not every student seek to imitate his master, but Sensei shook his head.

But I believe that Sai-sensei will achieve the Hand of God. That I can provide the hands for him to do so is a great honor.

\---

I paid my respects to my patron, Lord Asano, in Onomichi today. He greeted me warmly and invited me to play Hoshin-sensei, who wished to test my skills and to see how much I had improved since departing for the capital. I felt a strange impatience as I waited for Sai-sensei to call out each hand. The whole castle gathered to watch the game, and I kept my head bowed to avoid meeting their gaze.

> the edge of white sleeves  
> draped across _tatami_ mats  
> a fan unfurling

Hoshin-sensei lost the game and quipped that next time, he would ask for a handicap. I could not smile at the jest. He had been my first teacher, and although it was not I who had defeated him, he believed that I had surpassed him and felt as proud of my talent as if it had been his own. How could I tell him that it was not my _igo_ he had seen today?

I refused Asano-dono's offer of dinner and a night's lodging, although Sai-sensei wished to stay, in hopes of further games. Sensei was able to curb his great distress however, and I was able to depart with nothing more than a slight uneasiness in my stomach.

I am fond of the ferry boat ride back to Innoshima. The boat rocks gently in the calm sea, bright like glass underneath the white sun. On the blue surface of the water, one can see the shadows of the gulls soaring up ahead.

When Honinbou Shuusaku plays on the _goban_, I wonder, do they also see the shadows of the Hand of God?

\---

I will stay here awhile, I say to Sensei. He does not object: there are strong _igo_ players wherever one travels.

This afternoon, I replayed yesterday's game and paused to contemplate the elegance of the shape forming on the _goban_. As I held my breath, I felt a sudden resolve to one day play a game of my own that would be as beautiful. For I too am an _igo_ player, walking the path to the Hand of God, though I be many steps behind him.

I asked Sensei for a game, which made him very happy.

Outside, the first snow is falling and melting away into the ground.

> single black stone in the corner  
> waits for its reply


End file.
